Questions of Travel (40 page)

Ravi, 2004

THE MIRROR IN THE
lift showed Ravi a man in a gray suit and a woman in a blue one. Angie Segal tilted her head. “You look good—I knew that suit’d fit.” It belonged to her husband. She smiled at reflected Ravi. He would have liked to smile back, but his face was stuck.

Two men, one a skeleton, the other turbaned, were waiting when the lift arrived. Angie spoke briefly to the thin one, afterwards informing Ravi, “Feverel’s the member today. Adrian Feverel. He’s new—jury’s still out, but signs are he’s not one of the total bastards.” She offered Ravi a packet of chocolate-coated sultanas. At a pedestrian crossing on the way to the hearing, she had burst out with, “Members rake in the loot. They get a flash car and to feel like they’re really hot shit. You can bet most of them fall over their arses to toe the line.”

From the window in reception, the view was rowdy with blue and green. At Ravi’s shoulder, Angie said, “Hyde Park.” They examined its trees in silence, and the harbor’s unambiguous stare. For the first time, that quick, trilling impression Ravi associated with Angie was absent—she was a phone that was out of credit. She said, “Feverel’s ex-DFAT. That’s Foreign Affairs and Trade.”

If that cloud reaches the sun before I count to five.
Ravi counted slowly to ten. The cloud had stalled. Spring continued to swagger through every leaf—a plain sign that the tribunal would reject him. Angie Segal was still talking, still untypically spelling everything out. So she, too, expected the worst, Ravi could tell.

The member said, “Mr. Mendis, no one doubts that your wife and son were murdered. But why do you claim that the state was responsible?”

Ravi had rehearsed this with Angie. “No one was arrested or even detained for the murders, sir member. The police took no credible action. Also, there has been no follow-up to the complaint I lodged with the Human Rights Commission.”

The room in which the hearing was taking place had no window and no shadows. Swearing Ravi in, the attendant’s bronze lips had quivered, and she looked no higher than his chin. She checked that the recording equipment was working and left the room. That made sense to Ravi: why sit there listening to what no one wanted to hear?

In the cramped space, the member’s desk imposed. Glancing sideways, Ravi could see Angie’s blue sleeve moving as she took notes. But he tried to keep his gaze, as she had advised, on Feverel. He saw silver hair cropped close to the skull and a face that had bones behind it. It was saying, “…does not, in itself, constitute proof.”

Time passed. At Angie’s urging, Ravi had written to Aloysius de Mel and begged. To his amazement, the old tortoise had obliged. A certified copy of his formal statement lay among Feverel’s many papers. It repeated what Aloysius had once reported to Carmel: that the police had orders to drop Malini and Hiran’s case.

Feverel’s pleasant voice asked, “Why wasn’t this statement submitted to Immigration with your original application, Mr. Mendis?”

Ravi explained.

“But after your application for asylum was rejected, your friend in Vancouver changed his mind and agreed to put his allegation in writing.”

Angie Segal was allowed to be present but was discouraged from speaking. Ravi felt rather than saw her stir. If only he could pass her something to gnaw, a thumb or a sweet. He said, “Mr. de Mel’s sister in Sri Lanka died last year, sir member. He has no need to go back. So he is not afraid to make a statement now.”

“His statement is hearsay, Mr. Mendis. It relies on an allegation by an unnamed third party.”

This only added depth to a pattern that was engraving itself on the morning. There was nothing in the dossier to prove that asylum should be granted: a formal order to track down and kill Ravi might have satisfied, or a signed confession that Malini and Hiran had died at official hands. Conversely, what the dossier did contain proved nothing; it might even have been concocted. Absence and presence alike cast a dubious light on Ravi’s case.

Angie had been in touch with Freda Hobson, who had added to her original statement at numbing length—the new one went on for pages. But Feverel had passed on to a beautiful, imposing document with a wax seal; from the corner of his eye, Ravi saw Angie turn to the copy in her file. Like Aloysius de Mel, Frog-Face—valiant Frog-Face!—had responded to Ravi’s plea.

Feverel said, “This person.” He was peering at the name at the bottom of Frog-Face’s declaration—a venerable, musical, polysyllabic name that easily defeated Feverel. “Why was this person’s first letter typed and left unsigned?”

“He was afraid of being identified, sir member.” Ravi added, “He was just trying to warn me not to go back to the university.”

“If he was afraid then, why has he made a formal statement now? Unlike your other friend, this one still lives in Sri Lanka.”

“He is a very brave gentleman, sir member.”

The member received this in silence. He turned a page in his file.

A little later, Feverel suggested that the sketch of the vase might represent
a joke in poor taste.
A sullen note began to creep into Ravi’s replies. Yes, it was true that when he had no fixed address, he had received no sketches. No, he couldn’t account for the failure of whoever was responsible to track him down. What he really wanted to say was, Sir member, you are making the same mistake I did: you are looking for clues and connections. What happened has no plot, it’s only true. His eyes strayed from Feverel’s—a calm, faint blue behind rimless lenses—to the coat of arms on the wall behind the desk. Ravi told a kangaroo and an emu, How ridiculous you look! Do you have a consistent story?

“Mr. Mendis, in your original statement, you claimed that you were afraid when the police were interviewing you in connection with the murders. Why was that?”

“There was a man.”

Feverel offered theatrical patience. “What kind of man, Mr. Mendis? A police officer?”

“Yes.”

“What was his name?”

“No one said.”

“It didn’t occur to you to ask?”

“I was afraid.”

“Why?”

“Because they were the police.” Adding silently: You fool, sir member.

“And what did this officer say or do that made you afraid of him?”

“He said there were questions it was better not to ask. He told me I was lucky to know that my wife and son were dead.”

“You chose to interpret these remarks as proof that the police were disinclined to pursue the investigation?”

It went on and on like that. At one point, Ravi’s gaze slipped sideways, as if pulled. Angie had angled her notepad towards him:
Keep going, you’re doing well.

“Mr. Mendis, you claim that the Sri Lankan authorities were intent on persecuting you. But you were granted the police clearance you needed to obtain your Australian tourist visa. How do you account for that?”

Then: “Please speak clearly so that the recording equipment can pick you up.”

“A man helped me.”

“Who?”

“I can’t say.”

“You will have to do better than that, Mr. Mendis.”

“A high-up person,” said Ravi, after some thought.

A wooden bar about six inches high ran across the middle of the member’s desk. Describing the setup at the hearing, Angie had explained that “the modesty bar” prevented either side from seeing what the other was writing. It had obscured Feverel’s hands, but now, as the member raised his glass of water and sipped, Ravi saw that the fingers circling the glass were felted with reddish fur.

His eyes fled to Feverel’s face—it remained the face of a spectacled saint. It asked, “Why did this official intervene on your behalf?”

The kangaroo and emu on the coat of arms had given way to a fox and a goose. When they started cavorting, Ravi’s hands jumped to join the jig. Their dance couldn’t be seen by Feverel, who said, “Mr. Mendis…?”

“There was payment,” said Ravi.

“Are you claiming that you bribed an official to procure your police clearance?”

“Yes.”

“Was this person a Sri Lankan national?”

He didn’t mind the quack, quack, quack,
sang Ravi silently. His hands were keeping time.

“What can you tell the tribunal about this official, Mr. Mendis?”

“Member, my client—”

But Ravi needed no help—he knew very well what pleased and excited the fox. “He was frightening,” he said. He tried not to stare at that soft red hand.

“But a minute ago, you asserted that you bribed this official to help you. Is that correct?”

“He helped me, sir member. But he had a frightening face.”

Feverel’s eyes moved behind his glasses. He said, “So this man, like the one at the police interviews, frightened you.”

On the coat of arms, they were singing,
And the legs all dangling down-o!
Ravi would have sung along willingly, but the borrowed tie had him by the throat.

“Was it by any chance the same man?” asked Feverel.

Angie intervened, saying something sharp; Feverel took his time putting her in her place. But his sarcasm had reached Ravi as a revelation. All the devils were one and the same: like happy moments, the devil contained and was amplified by those that had gone before. He might have long ears or wraparound glasses or a borrowed face, he might choose to transfix with pale eyes—what was certain was that he would come. He was everyone’s last visitor, a tasteless cosmic joke.

Feverel moved on to his next question. “Mr. Mendis, what do you think would happen to you if you returned to Sri Lanka?”

Crystal was saying, “Do you remember when there was that fashion for petticoats worn as dresses? That whole inner-becomes-outer thing? I had a blue petticoat with cream lace and a purple one with black lace.”

“Summer ninety-seven ninety-eight,” said Nadine.

This was so amazing that not a mouse clicked in the ’zone.

Eventually: “I would’ve said ninety-six ninety-seven?”

But Nadine had finished talking for the day.

“Hang on, I wore my blue petticoat over a black T-shirt that time I went to hear Nick Cave.” Crystal was Googling. Then, “Yeah, you’re right: ninety-seven ninety-eight.”

“Was that when razor scooters were everywhere?” asked Will.

“No, that was way later, like maybe two thousand.”

On Ravi’s screen, Istanbul was the Destination of the Day. A photograph summoned the Hagia Sophia; if he clicked on it, it would transport him to a Grand Bazaar. He remembered that he had once found this effortless travel exhilarating.
Bodies are always local,
whispered Malini the spoilsport. Ravi was meant to be designing an online promotion for a special offer, but where was the call to action? Buy two city guides, get a third free! The task struck him as devoid of all meaning, a busy waste of effort. Still, it would serve to fill up his time sheet. Time was what mattered here, not history—time could be managed. When Hiran’s photo appeared in answer to Ravi’s summons, he spoke to his son silently: In 2000, someone slit your throat.

After the hearing, when Ravi had changed back into his own clothes and returned the suit to Angie, he had promised her, knowing it was a lie, that he was taking the afternoon off. In the Ramsay car park, he crossed to his usual spot and stood there with the sole of one foot against the fence. Spring had been tranquilized and put to bed under a gray blanket, but it would have been warm there, by the hibiscus, if only the sun had been out. What he had heard in the e-zone had been no more than idle conversation. All it demonstrated was the ability of Crystal, Will, Nadine—lucky people, said Ravi to himself—to connect
then
and
now.
He thought, If I’m allowed to stay, there’ll only be
before
and
after.
A hyperlink could replace Sri Lanka with Australia in a flash, but what if you preferred to scroll down a continuous story? Ravi smoked his cigarette to the end. He seemed to be waiting for something.

Before letting him go, Angie had insisted on taking Ravi to lunch. Her small, tortured hands, busy with butter and bread, reproached the immaculate cloth. At the conclusion of the hearing, Feverel had announced that he was
reserving his decision.
That was usual, Angie told Ravi, the decision would be handed down in a few weeks. “If it goes against you, there’s always the Federal Court. But the evidence we offered in corroboration was as solid as it gets in this kind of case.” A red claw rose from a platter of seafood and floated before Ravi’s eyes.

Two hours after entering the room, Feverel had picked up the phone on his desk. “Hearing Officer, could you please return and close this hearing?” Waiting for her, they had sat, Ravi, Angie, Feverel, in a silence that was enormous. Ravi’s hands lay quietly in his lap. He stole a look at Feverel: the member’s hands, folded under his chin, were only dimly tufted across the knuckles. The fox rearing in Ravi’s mind was a brilliantly ruddy animal who frolicked like a male in his prime. Did he answer to the name of Feverel? The suggestion was far-fetched and the dossier lacked proof; the decision would have to be reserved. The fox had been strong and greedy; beyond that, Ravi knew he couldn’t say. Over and over, Angie had impressed on him the need to boost his credibility with details. But memory might preserve only sensations: pain, humiliation, fear rising like a concrete stair. When Ravi thought back to his time with the fox, he saw a scene as dim and unfocused as a botched snapshot. It contained two figures struggling in ecstasy or fear. That was all. But when all the distractions were stripped away, didn’t life itself come down to that struggle? Details weren’t essential to truth, only to persuasive stories. These days, when he thought of the dripping tap in the fox’s den, Ravi couldn’t be sure if it was a memory or something borrowed by his brain. It was the kind of detail that turned up in telefilms where an informer sweated in a motel and headlights arced over the wall. “They do a sensational white chocolate mousse here,” pleaded Angie Segal, but Ravi said that he had had enough.